


That Is Not a Cat; or, Erik Lehnsherr's Opossum Woes™

by InsertSthMeaningful



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Adopted Children, Adopted Opossums, Alternate Universe - Modern: Still Have Powers, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Charles Xavier in a Wheelchair, Erik is a Sweetheart, Fluff and Humor, M/M, dadneto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 09:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29469216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/pseuds/InsertSthMeaningful
Summary: Charles and Erik lead a happily married life with their School for Gifted Youngsters and their brood of adoptive children, doing what they love: shaping adolescent mutant minds and sometimes throwing on a disguise to terrorise politicians and entrepreneurs which would do their kind harm (that latter part is solely Erik's job - most of the time, at least). Their circumstances could not be more fortunate, and the tiny happy bubble they have built for themselves could not be more perfect.That is, until Charles brings home a cat which turns out to be decidedlynota cat and ends up testing their relationship to its limits.
Relationships: Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34





	That Is Not a Cat; or, Erik Lehnsherr's Opossum Woes™

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hllfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hllfire/gifts).



> So I remembered this thing which I started months ago for Syd and- I guess it's a belated Valentine's gift now 🥺 Thank you for being in my life, you awesome human being you 💙😭  
> More chapters might follow depending on whether Syd will manage to enable me or not :3

“Charles? Have you seen Pietro’s testosterone gel?” Lifting his arms up to stretch the muscles in his back, Erik picks his way across the clothes-littered floor of their bedroom to the window and throws the curtains wide open. The sunlight of a brand-new day filters through, and he breathes in deeply, still tasting the freshness of the air during his morning jog. “Rise and shine, Schatz.”

When he turns, a Charles-sized lump is stirring under the covers of their bed. Exhilaration from his sweat-inducing exertions (no, not that kind of _sweat-inducing exertion_ ) still pumping through his veins, Erik grins and sashays over to drop down on the edge of the mattress. His shirt, sweaty from his morning jog, clings to his skin, and he’ll need to shower soon to get himself presentable for his German class from nine to ten, but he should have the time to kiss his husband awake.

Slowly, he draws the covers back, his smile widening when Charles’ awful bedhead comes into view, then his scrunched-up forehead, followed by the adorable dip of his lips. Charles won’t open his eyes to look at him, but from the slight tinge of annoyance filtering through their mind link, Erik knows he’s awake.

“Wake up,” he whispers gently, before he leans down to peck Charles’ lips. “Wake up, Schöner. It’s a new day.”

“Screw your new day,” Charles mutters at last, one eye blinking open reluctantly to flash its striking hue of sky-blue at Erik.

“It was you who suggested I go to bed without waiting up for you. Don’t you dare blame me,” Erik says, but he knows he doesn’t sound accusative, not one bit. How could he possibly? After all, this is Charles they’re talking about – smart, stunning, nocturnal Charles Francis Xavier, Erik’s and _only_ Erik’s alone-

Something hisses under the covers, and Erik sits up so fast he thinks he just gave himself whiplash. “What the-”

“Oh. Oh right.” Taking his sweet time, Charles yawns, stretches, scratches the back of his head, until his eyes are open wide enough to gaze blearily at Erik. “I, well, I might have picked up a stray yesterday evening.”

“A stray? A stray what?” Erik, not daring to life the covers for fright of being faced with a rabid cat or – god forbid – a bear cub, glares at his husband. “A stray rattlesnake? Because it sure sounds like one.”

“A stray cat!” Charles exclaims triumphantly, more and more awake by the minute. “I decided to get a last breath of evening air, and there it was, the poor thing, cowering on the veranda all lost and lonely and with nowhere to go. I couldn’t possibly have left it out in the cold and wet, now could I?”

Instead of an intelligible answer, Erik sighs and looks down at his husband still sprawled under the sheets, with god-knows-what curled up out of view on his stomach. He wonders if he should just pull the covers away – rip the band-aid off in one go, so to speak.

Charles beats him to it. “Look,” he murmurs, propping himself up against the headboard and lifting the covers for Erik to see, scouring his face for approval with his sky-eyes, “isn’t it adorable?”

Erik leans forward to glance at the area above Charles’ boxers where he can see a bundle of fur curled up, breathing softly – and stares.

And stares some more.

Finally, Charles notices his heavy silence. “What?”

“Charles…” Erik swallows, praying to the heavens and whatever god has deigned it fruitful to torment him so. “That’s _not_ a cat.”

“And I tell you that it _is_. I saw it clearly yesterday evening, and-”

Charles’ words die in his throat when he, too, glances down at his foundling. The blood drains from his face.

“Erik, sweetheart,” he whispers at last, very quietly, “that’s not a cat.”

 _Yeah, no shit, Sherlock_ , Erik thinks not all-too subtly, and his husband shoots him a dirty glare.

 _I heard that_.

Erik chooses to ignore the building argument in favour of breathing, “Charles. You’ve adopted an _opossum_.”

It takes Charles’ brains a few seconds to catch up with what his eyes are seeing, and when it does, it immediately proceeds to flood his nervous system with a whole load of panicked anxiety.

There’s an opossum. On his _abdomen._ He has an opossum laying on his bare belly, curled up on his naked flesh and with nothing to keep its small, dirty teeth from piercing his skin. Charles wants to scream.

Instead, he smiles shakily up at Erik, doing his best not to move too much lest he startles the beast and gets bitten right into his belly button. “Uh, darling. I admit I might have had a glass of Scotch too many last night, and I see how this is my fault and how I brought this on myself, but could you maybe-”

“No,” Erik interrupts him, panic flaring up in his mind like a supernova. “No, I’m not touching that thing with a ten-foot-pole. I’d like to keep my fingers, thank you very much.”

Charles pouts. “Oh alright, so Mr Magneto ‘I once lifted the Golden Gate Bridge and flew it across the country to shape a giant metal heart out of it and put it in my fiancé’s front yard’ Master of Magnetism is afraid of touching a really not so big opossum and helping his beloved husband out of a life-threatening situation? Fine then, just leave me to my demise.”

“You’re not going to die-”

“Coward. Get me the gardening gloves – _now._ ”

Charles would be lying if it he said it wasn’t disheartening to see the man he loves leave the room as fast as his feet can carry him. He huffs, then freezes when it makes the opossum on his belly stir in its sleep.

What good is marrying a wanted mutant terrorist and putting up with all his antics when he ends up abandoning you in the most precarious of situations, anyway? Useless, that’s what Erik is.

Charles bites his lower lip, ready to ponder that awkward realisation until Erik comes back and saves him, when something tickles his belly.

Already preparing for the worst, he glances down – and finds his worst fears confirmed.

The opossum is waking up.

 _Now would be a good time to show up with those gloves, light of my life,_ Charles rapid-fires at Erik’s mind still pottering about in the garden shed behind the mansion.

His abdominal muscles are beginning to quiver with the exertion of holding still. The opossum’s eyes are definitely open now, two black, beady orbs trained on the sensitive flesh just above the waistband of Charles’ boxers. Oh. Oh no.

Erik’s thoughts are a sour mix of urgency, fear and resignation as he starts making his way back over the lawn to their balcony door. _Almost there, mein Herzblatt_ , he sends, sounding more nervous than when they drove to the hospital all those years ago to get see the new-born twins.

Charles doesn’t bother to reply. The opossum has fully unfurled now, its tiny claws digging sharply into Charles’ rosy flesh as it lifts its head and sniffs the air.

Then, it opens its teeth-filled snout and screams.

Charles screams, too, scrambling backwards on the mattress as fast as the dead weight of his legs allows it. The tiny, dirty bastard of a beast slides from his belly, grappling in vain with its paws at Charles’ skin and leaving angry red scratches all over it.

As he tries to get as much space between himself and the opossum, fear after fear flashes through Charles’ head. Can opossums transmit rabies? Are they venomous? Do they like to eat human flesh?

Charles only stops when he’s hanging half-way off the mattress, a good two feet between him and the little monster. It’s frozen in place, its mouth open and exposing about a dozen of tiny, pointy teeth that look like they were made for sucking blood the blood and life out of unsuspecting telepaths. Its ears, looking a bit like those of a guinea pig, are perked, and its posture hunched, as if it wanted to make itself extra-small.

Charles shudders. He must have been _really_ drunk last night to mistake this miniaturised abomination for a fluffy, docile, angelic _cat_ of all things.

He frowns. Then again, it leaves to wonder why this wild, feral creature let itself be handled by him in the first place. His telepathy doesn’t work on animals most of the time, there being too much raw emotion for him to get a get a grip on, and intoxicated, Charles’ grasp on his abilities has the tendency to grow slippery, if not even completely ineffective. Also, the opossum’s fur _does_ look fluffy.

No. No, this is a bad idea.

And yet.

Charles heaves himself back into a secure position on the mattress. Then, he extends a hand and aims for the fur behind the opossum’s ears.

By the time Erik skids to a halt in front of the terrace door to their shared bedroom, he’s already run through about half a dozen worst case scenarios, thought about flower arrangements for his and Charles’ funeral and contemplated the likelihood of having to hide his husband’s body because no one would possibly believe him if he told them that it was an opossum who murdered Charles. His heard is beating so wildly in his chest it hurts, and he sucks in one last desperate breath before he pushes the door open with his powers and stumbles into the room.

What he finds is- not exactly what he had anticipated.

The sheets aren’t bloodstained. Charles’ face hasn’t been eaten off, his fingertips are still intact, and – most surprising of all – they are gently scratching the fur behind the opossum’s ears.

Very, very slowly, Erik lowers the gardening gloves he’s been clutching to his chest like a shield.

“Charles? Are you alright?”

“Oh, _now_ you ask, don’t you?” his husband sniffs from where’s he’s sprawled comfortably on the mattress, but he doesn’t look up or even stop petting the little beast curled into his side. “We are, thank you.”

The workings of Erik’s brain grind to halt for a good half a minute, before he hoarsely croaks out, “ _We?_ ”

“Well, yes.” Finally, Charles’ gaze flickers up to meet his – the panic has bled from its pure blue, replaced by something akin to relaxation. “Me and our new friend here.”

Erik feels on the brink of fainting when Charles gently nudges the opossum at his last words. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

“I’m not, my dearest!” A smile flashes over Charles’ face, small but earnest. “He’s really quite friendly, there’s no need to be afraid. Why don’t you come over and give him a pet?”

Erik closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales very, very slowly.

The things he does for his gorgeous, beautiful, incredibly stupid husband.

Pulling on the gardening gloves – just in case, you never know when the opossum will have a change of mind – he walks to the bed and gingerly lowers himself onto the edge of the mattress. Charles is sprawled almost provocatively over its whole length, every inch of his creamy skin exposed safe for his crotch.

Figuring it can’t hurt, Erik places his left hand on Charles’ hip and leans down to bring their lips together in a slow, sweet kiss.

The next thing he knows, there’s something hanging off his left thumb, gnawing at the pad of his finger with needle-sharp teeth and hissing.

“What the-?” he yelps, jerking backwards so violently he loses his balance and lands hard on the floor. The gardening glove comes sliding off, snatched from his hand by the jaws of whatever monster just tried to give him blood poisoning.

Charles stares at him from the mattress, then down at the little furry creature curled up by his chest, a disapproving frown distorting his eyebrows. “That’s- well, that’s not quite what I expected. He’s my husband, you dummy. He’s allowed to do that.”

The opossum doesn’t say anything, which isn’t quite that surprising. However, it glowers at Erik with its dark, beady eyes, the thumb of the gardening glove pierced by its teeth when it lets it go. In Erik’s opinion, that’s answer enough.

“Alright then,” he grinds out between his teeth, glowering right back, “either he goes, or I do.”

Charles looks at him like Erik just asked him to offer their first born as a virgin sacrifice. “You don’t mean that.”

Erik growls. “ _Try me.”_

And Charles does.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and especially comments will be dearly appreciated!


End file.
